


Hands-On

by aldiara



Category: Alles was zaehlt
Genre: Alles was zählt - Freeform, Angst, Dubious Consent Fantasy, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-02
Updated: 2010-10-02
Packaged: 2017-10-12 08:45:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldiara/pseuds/aldiara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deniz is totally straight, and totally over Roman, except when he's fantasising about him, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands-On

I wake up to utter silence. The numbers on my digital clock read 4:46 a.m. I’m covered in sweat, my sheets are crumpled and damp, and my dick is so hard it hurts. I don’t remember any dreams but I’ve still got the taste of your name in my mouth. I fucking hate it when that happens.

I hear your voice in nights like this. Like that time, in Majorca. It was so hot, and your voice was so close and for a few seconds there at the end, it was as if…

Oh fuck it, I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m thinking. I never know what to think when I’m thinking of you. You muddle everything up.

My mum used to have migraines. She’d lie in bed and whimper and be unable to think of anything but the pain, she said. I wonder if that’s what you’re like, to me. A pain that sits inside, where I can’t get to it, except unlike with migraines, there’s no bloody pills. Why won’t you just go the fuck away?

Instead, try this: I don’t think. I slide my hands down, both of them, pretending that they’re yours. My chest and stomach are slick with sweat; I don’t know what the hell I was dreaming. I spread it around as I go, scrape my nipples lightly; then slide my hands down further, either side of my groin, and pull my thighs apart like I don’t have a say. I don’t have to want this. This is all in my head. I can put up a fight if I want to. I can be indignant and struggle. I can even hiss and spit at you, knowing you won’t care; knowing you’ll see right through me, because you always do.

I half close my eyes and it’s your hands on my knees, pulling them wide and settling between them. I can imagine you so easily, the solid weight of you atop me. Your hands sliding up to pin down my wrists. Your voice in my ear, low and taunting, telling me things… things you want to do to me, things you know I want too. My lips move as I imagine snarling at you, growling insults that end in whimpers when you touch me.

I’m so hard that even the brush of air feels like torture on my swollen cock. Blindly, I cup my hand around it, my palm damp with sweat. It’s such a relief I can’t help making a noise. You’d laugh. You always laughed at me when I was making noises – not even in a mean way, just, like… I don’t know. Fond, I guess. And proud of yourself for luring them out of me.

I don’t try to think of others, not this time. I’ve tried that. I know it doesn’t work. I’ve thought about Vanessa. About Kaja. I’ve thought about that Norman guy, and once, when I was desperate, about Ingo. It doesn’t fucking work. I mean, it works. I come and stuff. But it’s not… dammit.

It’s not you, okay? Fuck you.

I wasn’t going to think. I was just going to do this. My cock lies heavy and eager in my hand. It feels so fucking good to have someone touch it, even if it’s just me. I wrap my fingers around and tighten my grip, start sliding my hand up and down. My eyes are closed. They’re always closed. Behind my eyes, you do the things you used to do, the things you hissed into my ear that time on the phone. You tease and taunt and laugh at me, but you don’t leave me hanging; you always come through.

You’re holding me down. You’re making me do this. I have to remember that. I don’t have a say. I could push you off if I really wanted to, but then I’d have to hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you. It’s easier to just let you do this… just let you put your hands all over me, possessively, like there’s no place you’re not allowed – and there isn’t, I guess. There are no boundaries with you. I increase the pressure as I rub myself, stifle a moan on my own fingers jammed into my mouth, imagining they’re yours. I suck on them to get them wet. I want you inside me. Any part of you. Without you, I’m so fucking empty.

My spit-slicked fingers dance lightly back down my torso, across my taut stomach, past my other hand busy on my cock. They pause briefly to cup my balls, heavy and full, then settle lower down. The light brush of my wet fingers softens in my imagination to the wicked touch of your tongue, so soft and agile, sly, darting touches in places that I’d never thought… places that were too shameful, too dirty for that kind of touch, but then you’ve never known much about shame, have you. I slide the tip of a slick finger inside, moaning out loud as I push down on it, wishing it were your tongue. Your tongue, circling, teasing, soothing... licking me open, sweet and soft and wet until I’d be trembling and gasping, and the hell of it is, I wouldn’t care. I’d crawl on my knees if you wanted me to. I’d beg you for more.

I jerk on my cock furiously. It feels hot and alive in my hand, my hips eagerly thrusting it into my hand… _your_ hand. Your ghost voice is still whispering to me, so close, so real. _Ask me for it,_ you murmur, so low I can feel it vibrating in my blood. _I want to hear you say it._ I can almost feel the moist air of your breath against my ear. I bite my lip, resisting. You laugh. My fingers/your fingers are dancing teasingly between my cheeks, prodding gently. Too gently. Spreading my legs as far as they will go, I thrust my hips up, offering myself shamelessly. You laugh softly, although it’s a little strained. I know I’m getting to you. I always do.

You don’t give in, though. _Say it,_ you repeat, and I can almost taste you, the salt of your sweat, the shape of your collar bone as I lick a pleading swipe up the length of your neck. _Say it, or I’ll go._ You lean back, away from me, preparing to sit up, and I crack, as we both knew I would.

“Fuck me,” I gasp into the empty silence of my room. “Roman, please… please fuck me.”

I can’t see your smile but I can taste it, pleased but tense around the edges. Oh hell, yeah, I’m getting to you.

I jam three fingers in without preliminaries, not even bothering with more spit – just all the way in, hard. It hurts. I like it. I throw back my head and give myself to it… to you. My other hand is flying up and down my cock, long past the stage of teasing or build-up. This is about the endgame. You – my imagined you – are moving above me, inside me, deep, perfect strokes that drive me crazy, drive me closer to the edge. You whisper stupid, loving things, but you take me hard, driving out any thought that’s not you. My whole body is straining towards you, every inch of me tensed to the breaking point. My lips are moving soundlessly, begging you for release.

When it finally comes, it’s like a fever breaking. It rolls over me in waves of heat as I clench around you, around myself. I arch off the bed and bite my lip so hard I taste blood to keep myself from crying out. A warm spray of come hits my stomach as I slump back into my tangled sheets. Nameless colours are swirling behind my still-closed eyes. My heart is beating so hard I wonder, for a brief, stupid moment, whether perhaps you can hear it, wherever you are right now.

Shuddering in the dark, I wait for my breathing to calm, wait for the brush of your hand on my forehead, the shaky smile in your voice when you ask if I’m okay. But there’s nothing. It’s just me, boneless and spent and so fucking weak I could cry. Because I’m the one who made this space, this absence of you. And now, no matter what I do, I just can’t seem to fill it up.


End file.
